


Captive Wolf

by DachOsmin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Enemy Lovers, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 10:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18892726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: Upon hearing that the crown's forces have defeated and captured the the King in the North, Jaime's good mood lasts until his father informs him that he means for Jaime to marry the boy.





	Captive Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



On a crisp afternoon shortly after the North had declared its independence, Ser Jaime Lannister received a summons from his father. Technically it was an invitation, but Jaime well knew that coming from Tywin the matter was moot.

When he arrived in his father’s study, Tywin looked as he always did: an implacable mass of stone somehow carved into a man. He was sequestered at his desk, surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of ruling a kingdom in all but name. Ledgers were stacked in squat towers; scraps of paper pinned down by sullen inkwells.

As Jaime entered, his father did not look up. Jaime knew better than to look for a chair to sit in; this was not a meeting of equals. He had come before his father’s desk many times, but always as a a supplicant or a subordinate, never as a son.

Twyin was in the midst of something; Jaime stood in meditative silence as he finished with his business, the scratch of his quill and the rustle of parchment the only sounds in the room. Tywin Lannister was a force of nature, and as such could not be rushed or brought into rhythm with the schedules of mere mortals.

At last Tywin looked up from his ledgers and Jaime tensed, bracing himself for whatever command was to come next.

“We’ve captured the Stark boy,” Tywin said without preamble. Tywin did not believe in preambles.

Jaime blinked and took a moment to process this. Robb Stark- the King in the North- had only just raised his banners in revolt. It would seem this particular rebellion would not grow to engulf all seven kingdoms after all, but instead burn out like a cookfire left in the rain. It was for the best; so many lives would be spared this way, of the nobles and the commonfolk both. But the memory of Robb glaring at him in the shadow of Winterfell, a lifetime ago, struck him with a peculiar sense of breathlessness, and Jaime found himself regretting the boy’s downfall.

“Have you had him killed, then?”

But Twyin was shaking his head. “No,” he said, “We can’t risk further antagonizing the North.”

“You killed his father,” Jaime pointed out.

“His father was not a king,” Tywin answered, as if that made all the difference in the world.

Jaime hardly saw how it mattered. “The boy is a king in name only, if he’s a king at all.”

That got a withering stare. “All kings are kings in name only. You of all people should know that.”

Jaime had no desire to pursue that particular avenue of conversation. “So if we’re not to kill him, what’s to be done with him?”

Tywin did not blink. “You’re to marry him.”

If he’d had a glass in his hand he’d have dropped it. “What?”

“I consulted with the septons,” Tywin continued, as if Jaime hadn’t spoken. “You’re barred from marriage or carnal relations with any woman.” He paused, and Jaime could hear the threat in that pause, and the censure. “But there are no equivalent prohibitions regarding men.”

He felt he was still three steps behind, trying to understand. “But- surely-“

Tywin’s lips thinned. “We cannot kill him, else the North rise up in vengeance and we have another war on our hands we can ill afford. We cannot lock him up in a dungeon somewhere, as he’ll be a lightning rod for separatist intrigue for however many years he clings to life. We can’t marry him to a woman of the family, as a woman would have no power to curtail his actions and he’d be free to get a trueborn heir on her, raise his armies, and go on his merry way.”

Jaime’s tongue seemed stuck in the dryness of his mouth. “And I would be able to, as you so gently put it, curtail his actions?”

“I have no doubt you’ll be able to bring the boy to heel. You’re older. You’re the better swordsman.”

It was hard to match Tywin’s tone for lack of passion, but Jaime did his best. “And such things preclude me to control him? And all his northern armies?”

Tywin’s lips thinned. “By the seven, you hold his sister as a hostage. As for his armies, no knight will follow a king that’s played the part of a woman in bed.”

There were so many things that Jaime wanted to say to that- arguments and challenges and recriminations- but his father was already looking back to his papers in a clear dismissal, and Jaime saw with bitter clarity that this would be one more instance in which his father got his way. He bowed just shallowly enough for Tywin to take offense. But Tywin didn’t look up, and so Jaime was left to retreat from the study, heart a bitter ache beneath the armor of his breastplate.

***

Things seemed to move very fast after that. The Stark boy was brought down from the field where he’d been captured in an armored carriage, bound and chained. Thrice the men of the north assaulted the convoy, trying to win his release, and all three times they were rebuffed. Tywin was jealous of his prizes.

The news was out now, that he was promised to Jaime. Cersei’s little monster-king seemed to find the thought of the union hilarious. He had though to ask, as Jaime had, why they couldn’t simply kill the Stark boy- though more from sadism than from any kind of tactical prescience. But Tywin was no more swayed by his grandson than he’d been by his son, and the matter was put to bed.

Jaime heard all this and more in snatches of whispered conversation between the other knights, usually accompanied by looks in his direction either sympathetic or scornful. He took no part in the gossip himself, spending all his time on the practice grounds, beating straw foes into a pulp. That, at least, was a battle he could win.

But all too soon the convoy had reached the capital, and Jaime’s wedding was at hand.

The lead-up to the ceremony itself was forgettable. The septons droned on, as they always did, but Jaime found he couldn’t pick out any particular word from the current of stiff prayers. He was reduced to sensations: the heavy weight of the marriage cloak on his shoulders, the sense that Cersei was staring daggers into his back, the peculiar sound of the nobles’ whispers echoing in his ears, reverberating in the steel of his breastplate.

And then his blushing bride was brought out, and everything else faded away.

Of course, he was no bride. Even though his father had insisted that the ceremony follow tradition with the boy cast in the part of the woman, no one could ever mistake him for anything but a warrior grown. He wasn’t a boy at all, not truly- even though Jaime couldn’t help but think of him that way, he had at least 20 years of life. He walked straight backed, every movement belying muscle held in the abeyance of violence. While a bride in name only, he was certainly blushing: his cheeks were a burnished red, the kind that came from helpless rage instead of any kind of chaste modesty.

He was unbound; his hands were stiff and white knuckled at his sides. Jaime could guess well enough why the boy went along with this: his sister, the lovely Sansa, who out of some small sense of pity had been allowed to skip this farce of a ceremony. Jaime hadn’t heard the threats that had been made to her brother, but he could guess what they would have been. _“Bear the brunt of this atrocity, little king, and your sister will live, and remain unspoiled.”_

The boy would not be so lucky. The shame of it was a lead weight in Jaime’s stomach, that he would be implicated in the breaking of such a lovely thing. The boy- _Rob, his name was Robb-_ had the bright shine of youth in his eyes and the curls of his red, red hair. He should have had a trail of maidens sighing after him, flowers in their hair. He should have had a sweet bride of his own, one that would slip her fingers through his curls in the quiet of their bower, plant sweet kisses against the flush of his cheeks…

Jaime looked up to see that his attentions had been noticed. The boy’s nostrils flared and he looked away, mouth a thin line.

He reached the space by the altar and stopped opposite Jaime. He wore a grey marriage cloak, the only one in the hall wearing Winterfell colors. That alone was a break in tradition: a bride was always led to the altar by her father. But then they’d killed the boy’s father, hadn’t they?

“Join hands,” the Septon said, as if this were any other wedding.

Jaime held his hand out and after a moment the boy took it. The Septon proceeded to tie a ribbon in a knot around their joined hands, mumbling another prayer that Jaime couldn’t hear. The boy’s fingers were clammy with sweat against his own.

Jaime couldn’t look him in the eyes. Instead he stared at the floor as the Septon droned on, and prayed to the gods for forgiveness.

***

The farce continued at the wedding feast. It was a study in excess: too many guests, too many courses, musicians and the cacophony of trained animals bouncing echoes off the stonework of the hall in a nightmare chorus. Jaime hadn’t wanted any of this- bad enough he had to marry the boy, worse still that they had to make a spectacle of it. But Tywin had insisted: a sham wedding it might be, but it was a _Lannister_ sham wedding, and the family had a reputation to uphold.

Jaime sat at the high table, his erstwhile bride at his side, and reflected that at least no one else at the table seemed to be having any fun either. His sister was sitting stock-still, looking like she’d eaten something particularly unpleasant. His brother was already swimming in wine. His father was… as he always was. And then there was the boy sitting at Jaime’s side, who hadn’t looked up from his plate for the duration of the meal. He’d eaten nothing, not even a bite of bread. His wine was untouched.

Some part of Jaime wanted to speak to him, perhaps offer some comfort- but there was no comfort to be offered, and if there was it would not be coming from him. Jaime was the source of all the boy’s pain, after all.

The lamprey in his mouth suddenly acquired the taste of dirt. He spat it out onto his trencher and excused himself from the table.

His father’s eunuch intercepted him on the way to the privy. “Your distaste for the boy is well-evident, but you’ll put it aside tonight and bed him properly,” Varys murmured to him.

Distaste for the boy… Jaime closed his eyes and swayed, thinking of the angry flush on Robb’s cheeks, the pierce of his eyes. _Distaste_.

“We are wed,” he said roughly, turning away. “What does it matter if I fuck him or not?”

Quick as an asp-bite, Varys raised his arm to block Jaime’s path. “It matters,” he said, “in that if you fail to despoil him, his vassals will still rally to him as a king. It matters in that if you do not fuck him, your father loses the North.”

“I’ll not take the boy by force.”

“Then remind him of the precarious position of his sister, or ply him with drink, or woo him. Your father hardly cares how you take him, as long as it’s done.”

Gods. “Ahh yes,” Jaime said with a broken laugh. “There’s no better way to quicken the blood of a youth than to threaten to kill his family if he won’t take a cock up the arse.”

Varys shrugged. “I’d not know, my lord. But if you do not bed him, he becomes a liability instead of an asset, and your father does not suffer liabilities to live.”

There was nothing Jaime could say to that. The image came unbidden: the boy sprawled out in an ungainly death, a bloody gash across his throat as bright as the fire of his hair.

He couldn’t do this anymore: not this conversation, not this mess of politics, not this farce of a wedding. He pushed past Varys; this time Varys let him go.

***

The bedding came next. The crowd, more drunk than not by that point in the evening, came for the boy first. He let himself be carried away, quiet as a ghost in their hands.

The revelers next turned their eyes to Jaime, but he put a hand on the hilt of his sword, silently daring any man to try him. He would not suffer the indignity of being carried.

As he made to rise from the table, His father stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Congratulations,” he said, and Jaime wished the gods had seen fit to endow him with the strength to punch that look of calm self-assurance clean off Tywin’s face. “Thank you, my lord,” he said instead, and turned to leave.

Tywin inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, a sop to Jaime’s pride, the closest thing to an apology Jaime would ever get. “Oh, and Jaime?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“If you fail in your duty, I will know.”

***

The walk to his chambers was short; Jaime wished it was longer. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to _want_ to do this. The boy, spreading softly beneath him…

He stopped by the door, taking a moment to get himself under control. Then he was undoing the latch and pushing the door open. He kept a hand on his sword hilt as he entered the room, ready for an attack from any angle, whether by the boy’s fist or some clever knife he’d managed to disappear up his sleeves over dinner. The hate in Robb’s eyes had been incandescent, murders had been goaded by less.

But when Jaime stepped inside there was no attack, no motion whatsoever. In fact, the darkened room was so still that it took Jaime a moment to see that Robb was there at all, and then it was only the paleness of his naked skin that gave him away- a huddled form, drawn up upon itself in the center of the bed.

Jaime let out a breath. Some part of him was disappointed- He had hoped Robb would launch himself with that same hatred he’d seen earlier. Jaime’s blood was hot in his veins; it hammered through his body with every beat of his heart. He wanted a fight. It wasn’t cool or logical, but savage and base- he wanted to swing his fists, to feel bone crunching and the rush of blood, to scream.

Instead he got this: a stifling room with no clear exits and a situation that was just as much of a trap. And instead of an opponent, a lovely youth hardly more than a boy with skin as pale as milk, presented to him with all the pomp of a dead fish on a silver platter.

It didn’t matter that neither of them wanted to be here. In Robb’s eyes he was the villain, so the villain he would be.

Well, perhaps Jaime could goad him to violence. “I had thought,” he said with a sneer, “that the vaunted King in the North would put up more of a fight than this.”

Robb was silent, eyes cast downwards. The slight stiffening of his bare shoulders was the only sign he’d heard.

“Unless of course, you wanted to be here.” Jaime sauntered over to the credenza, plucked up a goblet and filled it with a dash of red from the ewer that had been thoughtfully provided. He lifted the rim to his lips and took a sip; the wine was bitter on his tongue. “ _Get him drunk_ ,” his father had said. A tremor ran through his hand; he set the goblet down with a clatter and turned back to face the bed.

He observed the boy carefully, and- there: the clench of his jaw, the whitening of his knuckles where they clutched at the hem of the coverlet. He was angry. He was helpless and furious about it. All there was to do was unleash him.

Jaime strode over to the bed. He reached out and stroked a gloved hand up the side of Robb’s cheek, mocking in his gentleness. He could just feel the heat of his skin beneath the leather.

“What would your sister think, to see you now?” he asked softly. “A catamite in the bed of a Lannister, a whore breathless and eager for cock?”

At Robb’s sharply drawn breath, he twisted his gloved fingers around a curl of Robb’s hair and yanked savagely, drawing a harsh gasp and baring the pale pillar of the boy’s neck in unwilling submission. “Is she proud of you, do you think?”

“She’s alive.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “She’s the only one still alive.”

Jaime jerked at his curls once more, eliciting a swallowed hiss of pain. What would the boy sound like in pleasure? “Alive, for now at least. On account of your whoredom.”

“Alive is alive.”

Where had the firebrand gone? “You’re a cold fish, wife. Perhaps she’d be warmer.” A tremor in the boy’s hands, at that. Encouraged, he pressed on. “She would be so sweet beneath me; she would beg for my seed; she’d-“

And without warning, Robb was snarling in fury, was launching himself at Jaime, was pulling his fist back to swing with abandon. _Finally_. Jaime balled his hands into fists and the fight was joined.

It was the fight of a wounded animal. There was no thought behind Robb’s blows, only rage. Jaime parried the first blow and the second, let the third land against the side of his jaw. His blood was singing. This is what he wanted, this was so much better than the stifling helplessness of the quiet room. This was a fight he could win, would win.

Robb had no chance. He’d been trained in the courtly arts of war, but Jaime had fought and killed in real battles. He knew all the strikes that gentlemen weren’t taught, how to take a man apart with brutal efficiency, how to smash him into the dirt.

Still, he let the brawl drag on, avoided taking openings that would plant the boy on the floor. He played a defensive game, dancing around furniture as Robb howled and threw footstools and wine glasses in his rage. Robb was too beautiful like this, all fire and fury. Jaime didn’t want to see him reduced back to the wraith he’d been at the wedding.

But he had to. For Robb’s sake, if not his own.

The boy’s punches were becoming sloppier as he tired. Jaime caught the next one and used the momentum of the throw to swing the boy around and jam his back up against the wall. As the boy struggled, he trapped his wrists flush against the stone so that his body was pinned against the wall as neatly as a pressed flower between the pages of a book.

Robb spat curses and struggled against the weight of Jaime’s body, but couldn’t break free.

Jaime retaliated, shoving his knee between the boy’s legs and angling up. The motion was met with an angry gasp.

Jaime repeated it, and was gratified to feel Robb’s length harden against his thigh.

“Done acting the reluctant maiden, eh? You’re hot for this.

“Shut up.” Robb sounded near tears. “ _Shut up.”_

Jaime kissed him then, hard and savage on the lips. It wasn’t the tender kiss that Robb deserved, but Jaime had no tenderness left in him. He forced the boy’s lips open and plundered his mouth, forcing him to take it no matter how much he tried to pull away.

He reached down to palm roughly at the boy’s crotch. Robb swore and bucked into his hand, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Beneath the leather of his glove, Jaime could feel the boy’s length twitching in his breeches.

“You wanted this,” Jaime growled. “Did you dream of me in your tent, while you were playing at soldier? Did you touch yourself and wish it was me?”

“I didn’t-“ Robb panted. “I didn’t-“

Jaime swallowed his protests with another savage kiss and shove of his leg. “Don’t lie to me, boy.”

Robb’s cock was an eager length against Jaime’s thigh despite all his protests. Jaime could get him off with nothing but this: the dig of the stone wall behind him, the degradation of his tongue, and the mechanical thrusts of his thigh between Robb’s legs. But he wanted to do more, or do less: either give him something sweeter, or take him further apart.

He pulled back and sunk to his knees like a challenge, daring Robb to say something. But the boy just stared at him with wild eyes, and before he could realize his hands were free to punch or throttle or do any of the things he so clearly wanted to do, Jaime’s mouth was on him.

It had been a while since he’d last done this- Cersei would never have allowed him to dally with other men- but there had been a time when he’d been well versed in it. Soldiers were soldiers, and for every man happy to visit a whore there were a dozen that preferred not to risk the pox or the loss of coin, and instead bedded down with their tentmates. Jaime had served plenty of knights as a fresh-faced squire and been served in turn by young men eager to please and hungry for favor. It had been a while, but the body remembered.

He started by mouthing through the fabric of Robb’s breeches, while undoing the ties at the crotch, eliciting a cut-off curse. He took a moment to marvel at the boy’s cock, ruddy, well-formed, and eagerly hard amidst a bed of firey curls. But only a moment: it wouldn’t do to delay his attack. He leaned in to lave his tongue around the base, swiping his tongue up the shaft as he played with the boy’s stones with his fingertips, the flush of his skin a delicious contrast against the black leather of his gloves. A few more quick kisses to ease his way, and then he was taking the head in his mouth and swallowing down around it.

After he’d found the rhythm of it, he dared a look up. Robb’s head was thrown back against the wall, his eyes were wrenched shut, as if in the throes of pain. He’d brought his forearm to his mouth, biting into the soft flesh of his wrist to muffle his cries. A shame, Jaime would’ve liked to have heard him.

From there he sped up, a brutal assault of tongue and hands, offering no quarter or rest.

Robb came before long, arching off the wall, back bent in a bow as he let out a silent scream.

Jaime drank him down, every shuddering drop. Arms wrapped around Robb’s legs, he held him there in silence for a heartbeat as the struggle bled out of him.

Once Robb was spent and slumped against the wall, Jaime got back to his feet and slung Robb’s arm over his shoulder. “Up, little king.”

He thought Robb might protest, might throw him off- but instead he just sighed like a wounded thing and leaned against his side as he eased him over to the bed. Jaime did him the kindness of staying silent, setting him gently on the edge of the bed and laying him out back against the coverlet. His red curls looked like spilled blood against the sheets; his lips and cheeks were still a berry red to match- whether from the violence of their fight or his peak, Jaime couldn’t tell.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he said, amazed by the steadiness of his own voice. “I don’t want to do it.” _But I have to. For your safety, for your sister, for all the people of this realm that don’t deserve another war._

The resignation in Robb’s sigh spelled that he knew exactly what Jaime meant. “Get on with it, then.”

There was oil on the chest at the bedside, and Jaime didn’t want to think about who had thought to put it there. He uncorked the vial, and then hesitated. He took his gloves off. He wanted to feel Robb beneath him, even if he didn’t deserve it.

He prepared Robb quickly. Some part of him wanted to linger, savor- but it seemed to great an unkindness to stretch this out longer than he had to. Besides, the mere act of preparation was nearly enough to undo him as it was. Robb twitched and panted with every intrusion, twisting around his finger in a way that went straight to Jaime’s cock. He made no audible noise and had brought up one hand to shield his face from Jaime’s view, but Jaime could see his reactions in the tremors of his thighs and the clenching of his other hand in the bedsheets.

When he judged Robb ready, he paused. “Would you prefer to be on your back or your hands and knees?”

Robb’s flush reached down his chest. “I… I don’t-“

Jaime realized he didn’t know if this was Robb’s first time or not; he hadn’t thought to ask. “Hands and knees, then,” he said, taking pity. It would let Robb hide his face at least.

He thought Robb might argue but no, he complied without another word, shifting into place and holding the position.

Jaime’s erection had flagged in the awkwardness of it all, but the sight of Robb’s ass, taut and round and perfect, was enough to send another bolt of want to his gut. He gave himself two quick strokes of the hand and then he was sliding in and oh, it was perfect, so perfect.

The tightness and the heat were the most perfect kind of sin, and it was almost enough to make him forget what he was doing, and the shame of it. He fucked Robb over and over, until his thrusts lost all rhythm and it was all he could do to drive forward, and forward, and forward, until he was spent.

***

Afterwards, they lay together on the coverlet, cloaked by the darkness of the bed hangings.

Neither spoke, and Jaime judged Robb to have fallen asleep until Robb let out a soft sigh beside him. “I hate you,” he whispered.

Jaime pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “I know.”


End file.
